“How did he die?”
“Someone hit him on the head, they said. Crushed his skull, they told me. Una must’ve found him or maybe she even saw it happen. She was in shock, I’m sure. That’s why she couldn’t tell them what really happened. So they put her in jail, and now they’re going to hang her.”
Maeve knew that New York no longer hanged murderers. They used the very modern electric chair instead, but Mrs. O’Neill wouldn’t want to know that either.
“So you see, miss . . . Oh dear, I never even asked your name.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. Maeve Smith. I’m the nursemaid for Mrs. Brandt’s . . . that is, Mrs. Frank Malloy’s daughter.”
“A nursemaid who works with the Pinkertons?” she asked with a frown.
“No one notices a nursemaid. You’d be amazed at what I can find out.”
Mrs. O’Neill smiled sadly. “I’m sure, my girl, but I don’t think there’s anything a nursemaid can do for my Una.”
“You’re right, at least at the moment. The first thing you need to do is hire an attorney.”
“And how would I do that, miss? And what would I pay him with?”
This was a problem, of course. “Do you have any money at all?”
“I have a little put by, but not much.”
“Would your daughter have any? Maybe she tucked away some housekeeping money or something.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she ever say anything about it? Her husband must’ve given her money for shopping and things.”
“I . . . Well . . . That is . . .”
“What?” Maeve prodded when Mrs. O’Neill hesitated.
“I didn’t . . . After they got married . . . Mr. Pollock, he didn’t want me coming around anymore.” She dropped her gaze, unable to look Maeve in the eye. “I haven’t seen Una in . . . Well, since the day she got married.”
That didn’t sound like a man who adored his wife. Why would he have forbidden his mother-in-law from visiting his wife if he really cared about her? She couldn’t think of any good reason, but she didn’t want to go into that with Mrs. O’Neill just now. First things first. “Una should be able to spend her husband’s money. She probably knows where he keeps it, at least, and if he has any in the house, we’ll find it. I can help you with that.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?”
Of course it would, but Maeve said, “The money belongs to your daughter now that her husband is dead. You can use it to pay a lawyer.”
“What good will a lawyer do?”
Maeve felt a stab of envy for someone who had never needed the services of an attorney. “He can figure out how to get Una out of jail, for one thing.”
“Really?”
Maeve decided not to explain the concept of bail just yet. “Yes. I’ll write down the name and address of an attorney I know. He can help you. Tomorrow you can visit Una and find out if she knows where her husband kept his money. In the meantime, I’m going to find out what the police know and why they think Una killed her husband.”
“The police? How will you find out anything from them?”
Maeve smiled. “I’m just going to ask.”
* * *
Officer Gino Donatelli found himself whistling as he strolled down Bank Street and climbed the front steps to the Malloy house. He probably shouldn’t feel so happy about being summoned, especially when he knew Malloy was still on his honeymoon so this couldn’t possibly be an opportunity for him to work on a case, but he was whistling just the same.
He rang the bell and waited. Then the door opened and Maeve Smith was there and he couldn’t hold back his smile.
“Miss Smith.” He tipped his hat.
“Officer Donatelli,” she replied. She wasn’t smiling, but she usually made a point of not smiling at him. She stepped aside and motioned him in.
Before either of them could say anything else, two small bodies launched themselves at him, and he had to greet the children of the house. Catherine and Brian were both talking at once. Catherine used her voice and Brian used his hands, signing the way they had taught him at the deaf school he attended.
“What’s he saying?” Gino asked Maeve, but Catherine answered.
“He’s telling you we got a letter from Mama and Papa yesterday. They’re in France.”
“Are they now? And what are they doing in France?” Gino asked.
“Honeymooning,” Catherine informed him.
“That sounds like fun,” Gino said, grinning at Maeve, but she ignored him.
“Officer Donatelli and I need to talk,” she said, signing for Brian’s benefit.
The children tried to argue, but by then Mrs. Malloy had made her much more dignified way from the kitchen. Frank’s mother was a formidable woman even though she wasn’t quite five feet tall, and she tolerated no nonsense.
“Good evening, Officer Donatelli,” she said. “Have you had your supper?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have, thank you.”
“Maeve, take him to the kitchen and give him a slice of that pie we had,” she said.
“I helped make it,” Catherine said.
“Then I’m sure it’s delicious.”
“Come along, children,” Mrs. Malloy said, taking them each by the hand.
“I’ll see you later, after Miss Smith and I are finished talking,” he promised them.
Maeve led him down the hall without speaking. He hung his hat on the hall tree and followed her, silently admiring the shape of her as they went.
“Have a seat,” she said, pulling a half-eaten apple pie with a lattice crust out of the pie safe and proceeding to cut him a generous slice.
“This is very nice,” he said when she set it in front of him, “but I have to admit, I expected at least a kiss when I got here.”
That finally got a reaction out of her. She reared back. “Why would you expect a kiss?”
“Because the message you left for me at Police Headquarters made everybody think you were my sweetheart.”
“I never said any such thing!” Her cheeks had turned a becoming shade of pink, just as he’d expected.
“I took a lot of ribbing about it, too,” he said as if he didn’t notice. He’d also heard some speculation that she was going to tell him he was about to become a father, because why else would a girl go to the trouble of leaving an urgent telephone message for him at Headquarters? He decided not to mention that, though. Knowing Maeve, she’d hit him with the pie pan.
“It couldn’t’ve been that bad. I see you managed to survive,” she said with a smirk.
“Just barely. So what was so important that you had to see me tonight?”
She put some coffee on to boil, and while he ate his pie, she told him about the woman from Malloy’s old neighborhood who had come looking for help for her daughter.
“I heard about it today, the murder. Everybody was talking down at Headquarters,” he said.
“What did you hear?”
“Just that some woman bashed her husband’s head in. It was way up in Harlem, so nobody from Headquarters was involved.”
“Do you think you could get assigned to investigate?”
Gino frowned. “I’m not a detective, Maeve. Besides, they think the wife did it, so the police aren’t investigating anything. But if she wants to hire a private investigator . . . ,” he added with a hopeful grin.
“She doesn’t have any money. She wasn’t even sure she could hire a lawyer for her daughter.”
Gino tried not to feel too disappointed. When he’d returned from fighting the war in Cuba last summer, he’d helped Malloy on a case. This wasn’t unusual. He’d helped Malloy on several cases, but that was when they’d both worked for the New York City Police Department. When Malloy had come into some money recently, he’d lost his police detective�
�s job, so last summer they’d both worked on the case as private investigators. Then Malloy left on his honeymoon to Europe, and as Malloy had advised him to do, Gino had returned to his old job with the police, even though he wasn’t particularly happy to be back on the force. “Then there’s not much I can do except ask around to see what I can find out.”
Maeve sighed. “I wish the Malloys were back.”
“So do I. Mr. Malloy would help, I know.”
“Maybe we can help at least a little.”
Excitement stirred at the thought of a real case, but he tamped it down. “I’ll do what I can, but it’ll have to be when I’m off duty.”
“That’s fine.”
“Maeve?”
“Yes.”
“What if you find out this Una really did kill her husband?”
“Then I’m sure she had a really good reason. Maybe she even did it in self-defense. A woman doesn’t just bash a man’s head in for nothing.”
She was right, of course. A man might do something violent just because he was drunk, but women—respectable women, anyway—usually got violent only as a last resort. “What are you going to do?”
“Tomorrow, Mrs. O’Neill will visit her daughter in jail to find out if she’s got any money hidden away somewhere. Then I’m meeting her at her daughter’s house. We’re going to tell the servants that Una needs some clothes and things at the jail. That’ll give us an excuse to go in the house and look around to see if we can find any money that Mrs. O’Neill can use to hire an attorney to help Una.”
“Don’t people like that keep their money in banks?”
“Sure, but they need cash to pay their servants and to buy things with. Mr. Malloy left us a lot of money for expenses while they’re gone. We keep it in a safe. I figure Pollock kept at least a little money in his house, too.”
“What if Pollock’s money is in a safe?”
Maeve shrugged. “I’m hoping he kept his money in a drawer or under the mattress.”
Gino hoped she was right. “What if the servants won’t let you in?”
“What do you mean?”
“Servants are trained to keep people out. They won’t know you at all, and if what you say about Mrs. O’Neill never being allowed to visit her daughter is true, they won’t know her either. Who’s to say you’re not two strangers looking to rob the place?”
Maeve frowned. “You’re right. Mrs. Brandt would know how to get them to let her in.”
“Mrs. Malloy, you mean,” Gino said with a grin. “And her mother would know even better.”
“Her mother? You mean Mrs. Decker?” Maeve said, perking right up again.
“Can you imagine any maid refusing to let her in?” The Deckers were descended from the original Knickerbocker families who had founded New York City. They’d had money—and servants—for generations.
“Of course! She’d be happy to help.”
The sparkle in Maeve’s eyes told him she knew exactly how happy Mrs. Decker would be, too. Rich ladies seldom got to do anything exciting. “Just make sure Mr. Decker doesn’t find out.”
* * *
Poor Mrs. O’Neill nearly fainted when Maeve and Mrs. Decker emerged from the Deckers’ carriage in front of Pollock’s house the next day.
“Miss Smith, is that you?” she asked a little breathlessly, warily eyeing Maeve’s imposing companion.
“Yes, it is, and let me introduce Mrs. Felix Decker. She’s Mr. Malloy’s mother-in-law, and she has come to help us.”
Mrs. O’Neill managed to mumble something appropriate in response to the introduction, although Maeve could see she was completely in awe of the finely dressed matron. Mrs. Decker’s fur-trimmed coat and matching muff probably cost more than a cigar shop clerk earned in a year.
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. O’Neill,” Mrs. Decker said as warmly as if she were meeting one of the Vanderbilts. “I was sorry to hear of your daughter’s misfortune. I hope Maeve and I can be of some assistance to you.”
“When I told Mrs. Decker what happened, she insisted on coming with me,” Maeve explained.
“That’s very kind, I’m sure,” Mrs. O’Neill said faintly as Mrs. Decker swept past her.
“Is this the house?” she asked, indicating the gray stone, turreted row house behind Mrs. O’Neill.
“Yes, but . . .”
Mrs. Decker climbed the long flight of steps that led to the front door, located on the second floor. Maeve indicated Mrs. O’Neill should follow, which she did with obvious reluctance. Maeve brought up the rear after the driver, John, handed her the carpetbag Mrs. Decker had thought to bring along.
“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” Mrs. O’Neill whispered to Maeve.
“You have every right to be in your daughter’s house,” Maeve lied.
Mrs. Decker used the brass knocker with what Maeve realized was authority. She would have to remember exactly how she did that. After what seemed like a long time, the door opened just a bit and a very uncertain face peered out.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Decker said. “Mrs. Pollock’s mother is here to gather some things for her. If you would be so kind . . .”
Maeve couldn’t tell if Mrs. Decker actually pushed on the door or not, but the maid seemed to stumble a bit as she jumped out of the way when Mrs. Decker swept inside.
“There’s nobody at home,” the maid tried.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Decker said. She was in the foyer now. Maeve gave Mrs. O’Neill a small nudge of encouragement to herd her into the house, too. “Mr. Pollock is unfortunately deceased, and Mrs. Pollock is being detained by the police. That’s why we’re here. Mrs. Pollock needs a change of clothing and some toiletries. Would you please take her mother, Mrs. O’Neill, up to her bedroom so she can pack them?”
Maeve didn’t know who looked more astonished, the maid or Mrs. O’Neill.
Mrs. Decker gave the young woman a few moments to react, and when she just stood there, gaping, Mrs. Decker said, “Is it this way?” and started for the staircase at the end of the foyer.
The girl scrambled to catch up, and Maeve gave Mrs. O’Neill another nudge. With a dismayed glance back at Maeve, she obediently followed the other two up the stairs. As she and Mrs. Decker had previously decided, Maeve remained downstairs, prepared to become inconspicuous until she was certain she was unobserved. This required a wait of only a few minutes, during which no other servant came to investigate and the maid who had gone upstairs with the others did not reappear. Mrs. Decker would be keeping her busy, as they’d planned.
When she was satisfied no one would notice, Maeve strolled down the hallway and glanced into each of the rooms. A small parlor to the right was the scene of the murder, according to what Mrs. O’Neill had told her. The room looked remarkably undisturbed except that the carpet had been rolled up and lay like a low barrier in front of the doorway. Maeve imagined it was bloodstained, and the servants hadn’t wanted to look at it.
A long dining room lay to the left. Except for the rolled carpet, both rooms were well furnished, and everything in them was obviously brand-new if not of the very best quality. Beyond the parlor, behind a closed door, was what must have been Mr. Pollock’s office or study. Judging from the lingering scent of tobacco smoke, no ladies would have felt welcome here. With another glance up and down the hallway to make sure no one was watching, Maeve stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Only then did she realize she still held the carpetbag. Muttering an imprecation at her carelessness, she set it down and hoped her companions didn’t send the maid back down for it before she’d finished exploring this room.
A walnut desk sat against one wall. Pollock was either very neat or he didn’t really do any work at this desk. The top was bare except for an inkwell and a few knickknacks, and it had been polished to a shine. She checked the drawers but found not
hing of interest there either. If Pollock kept money in the house, he probably had a more secure location than an unlocked desk. Two ugly landscape paintings hung on the walls, but neither concealed a wall safe. Pollock had no bookshelves to conceal hidden passages the way they did in novels, and the only other furnishings in the room were two comfortable-looking leather armchairs and the table between them.
Maeve sat down in one of the chairs and looked around the room again, wondering what she’d missed. That’s when she noticed the table between the two chairs was rather oddly sized. The cube-shaped object seemed a bit too short for the job and, beneath a collection of singularly ugly knickknacks, was completely covered with what looked like a large silk scarf. The only reason you hid something with a scarf was because you didn’t want anyone to see how old and battered it was, but everything else in this house was bright and shiny and new.
Maeve lifted the scarf and found a squat and ugly but very sturdy-looking safe.
Maeve sighed. Gino had been right about Pollock having a safe. He’d been concerned she wouldn’t be able to open it, of course, and that was a legitimate concern. He probably couldn’t imagine someone like herself being able to crack a safe either. That would, of course, be a valuable skill to have, especially at this particular moment. Her grandfather had taught her many things, but not that, unfortunately. He had, however, taught her another skill that might serve her even better. This time when she searched Pollock’s desk, she checked his nearly blank appointment diary more carefully and found the series of numbers he’d written at the bottom of the very last page in pencil.
As she had hoped, they opened the safe on the second try—Pollock had been clever enough to list the numbers backward in case someone found them and guessed what they were. The safe opened with a satisfying click when she lifted the lever. She’d hoped to find a few hundred dollars inside that Mrs. O’Neill could use for a lawyer, but what she did find sent her rearing back with a most unladylike yelp.
2
Police Headquarters was unusually quiet when Gino arrived that morning. Of course, he was early for his shift because he wanted to see what he could find out about the Pollock murder, and early morning was that calm period of the day when the drunks from the night before were safely locked up and sleeping it off and the evildoers of the daylight hours hadn’t gotten started yet.
Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue Page 2